


And the Silver Spoon

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Fitz Dad Theory, Fitz backstory, Gen, Post 3x22, Radcliffe is Fitz' Dad Theory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-06-09 06:02:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6893041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Look here! Isn’t it amazing! You know, I’m still not sold on fate but at times like these…” Radcliffe sighed wistfully. “At times like these…”</p><p>Fitz frowned, and approached the monitor, studying the matchups closely. He couldn’t tell what most of it meant individually, but he knew how to spot a match. This was easily 50%. A sibling match, Jemma called it - or…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Emotionally compromised and inspired by the S3 finale, I thought I'd write a thing about Radcliffe being Fitz' dad which (shockingly) has done nothing to heal my wounds. (Plus bonus FitzDaisy brotp feels because apparently I like to suffer. Sorry guys.)

_When you coming home, Dad?_  
_I don't know when - but we'll be together then, son_  
_You know we'll have a good time then._

 _-_ Cat's in the Cradle, by Henry Chaplin

-

“Have a good day at work!” Simmons farewelled, pushing the rest of her croissant into his hands as she herded him out the door. 

“Have a good day at school,” he returned, kissing her on the cheek before she finished pushing him over the threshold. She was right, he was going to be late, but he had his reasons. 

All but running for the bus stop as he watched the others start to calmly – a little too calmly, even – file on, Fitz realised as his stomach churned that he hadn’t quite settled into this yet. For all he loved the domesticity of it, he always spent his morning bus ride obsessively checking his phone, waiting for news. Sneaking a glance at his neighbours’ papers, just in case. When this morning proved to be another day of silence, he ground his teeth together. _No news is good news, right?_

-

“Good morning, Leopold,” Aida greeted as he dumped his bag on the security-check tray and hurried through the metal detector. “A little late this morning I see?”

“Yup.” He mashed the remaining croissant into his mouth, picked up his bag and strode for the elevator, biting back the urge to correct her again. It had been weeks and she still refused to call him Fitz. It was really starting to get on his nerves.

“Fitz!” Radcliffe greeted as he finally burst into his office. “Did you get the email I sent you?”

“Yes I did, and no I’m not going to.” 

“But why not!” Radcliffe whined, circling Fitz’ desk as he unpacked his bag. “I’ve got the money I’ve got the parts, and there’d be no pain – we wouldn’t even have to put her under.” 

“That’s true, but the special settings on Coulson’s arms operate by his fingerprints. Aida doesn’t have fingerprints, so if we give her those abilities, anyone could use them if they were in contact _or_ in control. It’s too risky and I’m not doing it.”

Radcliffe pouted. 

“Not like this.” 

Radcliffe’s face lit up. He was just trying to come up with a calm, casual, yet not too roundabout way of asking what he meant by that, when Fitz sighed and dropped himself into his seat, behind his desk.

“Yes,” Fitz sighed. “I’m working something else out.”

Radcliffe shrugged, as if he’d never intended to ask in the first place.

“Of course, of course,” he said, brushing Fitz off. “Whenever you’re ready. And, uh, how’s Jemma going with those tactical contact lenses?” 

“They’ll still burn holes in your eyeballs, so, not great.”

“Ah.”

Fitz frowned, focusing on the prototype arm before him, trying to envisage how one could operate it efficiently and privately, without fingerprints. A code perhaps? That would take a long time to enter, relatively, and be able to be stolen. Perhaps it was possible to simulate fingerprints? Design her a set and simply print them out? But then, the oils… 

“Fitz?”

Fitz closed his eyes, and stiffly answered, “Yes?” 

“Do you like me?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you like me? Do you like it here?”

“I like being able to work in peace. That means, without my problems hanging over my head, and without irritating bosses sticking their noses in.”

Radcliffe laughed. 

“Leo! I’m not the boss of you! Honestly if anything, _you_ should be the boss of _me._ Here, would you like me to get you a coffee? Because I will. Or d’you prefer tea?”

“Yes! Fantastic. Great idea. And a muffin or something, please.”

“Yes, that sounds good. What’s your poison? Chocolate? Blueberry? That reminds me, there was this _great_ corner bakery back home, made fantastic blueberry muffins. And cheesecake, actually, really good cheesecake. Do you know it?” 

Fitz ground his teeth together. So much for getting him out of the room.

“Nanna Anna’s!” he snapped, because since he actually did know the answer it seemed a waste of energy to point out, once again, that he actually hadn’t spent that much time in Glasgow, relatively. And certainly not at an age where he cared enough to take in and remember everything about the place. 

Fortunately, Radcliffe was apparently not _completely_ oblivious to signals, and retreated from the room with a promise to surprise Fitz with whatever he could find. In the silence, Fitz sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, and leaned back. 

 _You just miss her. You just miss them,_ he told himself. He had never realised how much their voices soothed him; how peaceful it could be, surrounded by American accents. Now that he had nothing but another nattering Scotsman in his ear all day he could only wonder what he’d give to have Bobbi – no, Daisy – no, Lincoln – no, _anyone, anyone,_ recite the phonebook to him.

It wasn’t Radcliffe’s fault his voice was annoying. After all, Simmons nattered all the time and it didn’t bother Fitz at all. Still, something hadn’t been right these last few weeks. Was it just his worry for Daisy, Fitz wondered, or was it something else? Perhaps his time at SHIELD had affected his trust, and the fact that he hadn’t been through hell with Radcliffe was making him doubt the true motives of his apparently well-meaning, fun-oriented romp into AI and body enhancement.

Was he ever going to get out from under that shadow?

Then again – as he checked his phone again, for at least the thirtieth time that morning – did he really, truly want to? 

Fitz bit his lip. He could hardly blame Daisy for going off the radar. When Jemma was gone – even only presumed dead, not like this – he’d done basically the same thing. Having had to watch her fade out like that? Blaming himself right down to his core for what had happened? He couldn’t even imagine what Daisy must be going through. He almost wished he could support calling off the search for her, to let her have this time to grieve, but at the same time, he couldn’t bear to leave her alone in this. Not when they’d left her at the bottom of such a deep pit.

He checked his phone one more time. Still nothing. No calls from her, no news from the team. 

He sighed, and set himself to work.

- 

As Doctor Radcliffe stepped out onto the street, popping up his collar against the wind, he couldn’t help a grin spreading out across his face at Fitz’ answer. Nanna Anna’s. A tiny place, old but clean, thriving on word of mouth and quality food for patronage more than its faded, flaking signage. Family owned, and not far from an old familiar church, and an old familiar bus route, to an old familiar school – the same one Fitz had gone to? He couldn’t help but wonder. He wondered a lot of things about that boy.

“One latte, one English Breakfast, black. And two blueberry muffins, please.”

The cashier smiled and bustled off, and Radcliffe dug out his change. In a few minutes, the exchange was made.

“Would you like a sleeve for the tea?” she offered with a smile.

 _A sleeve?_ He looked down at where one of his hands was wrapped around the extra layer of cardboard they put around the middle of takeaway coffee cups. The way each of his fingers – his whole hand – pressed to it. Unique.

And suddenly, he had an idea. 

“No, thank you, it’s quite alright.”

- 

Fitz was feeling somewhat calmer by the time Radcliffe returned to the office, and was actually quite looking forward to that tea. He all but snatched it when it came within reach, and Radcliffe whipped it out of the way, before wrapping a napkin around it and holding it out to him. 

“Careful,” Radcliffe warned, “it’s hot.” 

Mercifully, Radcliffe left him to his tea and muffin for a while. He worked in the periphery, quietly calibrating and tweaking away as Fitz worked on his faux-fingerprints. They’d have to be complex patterns, he decided. Like a barcode: hard to mimic, but not trying to be too humanesque. It was the perfect balance, at least as far as he’d thought of yet. Now it was just a matter of designing and carving out the patterns in Aida’s soft, simulated flesh.

“Got it!” he hissed, grinning and shoving away from the desk. He stood up and walked in a loop, massaging his hand – fine motor skills still exhausted it sometimes. 

“What’s that now?”

Like a scavenger bird, Radcliffe swooped back to Fitz’ desk, studying the intricate carvings with awe in his eyes. As Fitz explained his inspiration and how he’d done it, Radcliffe whisked the napkin away, under the guise of knocking the now-empty cardboard teacup into the bin. 

“Fantastic!” he declared, when Fitz was done. “Now – Fitz, my boy, what University did you say you went to again? Strathclyde?” 

“No, University of Glasgow. Why?” 

“Shame. I knew a professor there once who’d have loved you.”

Fitz braced himself for more attempted bonding, but none came. Radcliffe seemed caught up in whatever was on his computer – _at long last,_ Fitz couldn’t help but think.

“Look, I’m going to go for a walk.” It was one of the many advantages of not being stuck on a top-secret base, and it was one Fitz wasn’t going to let go to waste. “I want to find a quiet place and test some of Aida’s instalments, in real life, interference and all.”

“Of course, of course,” Radcliffe allowed, waving him off without taking his eyes off his screen.

Fitz peered closer at Radcliffe. Something still felt off. Maybe it was just the day, or missing Daisy. Maybe it was intuition of some kind. He stuffed his phone into his pocket as he picked up the arm; maybe he should call Jemma, just in case.

-

Fitz sat in the park, with Aida’s disembodied arm hiding under a jacket beside him. Between med school and being an analytical attaché to Radcliffe herself, Jemma was busy. She was probably having tea at this very moment, making friends, but the ball of anxiety in Fitz’ chest was growing, and moving up his throat, and when he finally couldn’t keep his arms or legs still, he pulled the cell out of his pocket –

And it started ringing.

After a moment of confusion, Fitz flipped it open.

“Uh – yeah, Jemma, it’s me.”

_“Are you okay?”_

“Yeah.” He wanted to add something about what a strange day he was having, but since she’d ask, and he wouldn’t able to answer, he kept his mouth shut.

“Why?” he asked instead.

_“The search tracker’s getting results again. Why is Radcliffe doing a background check on you? I mean, I assume it’s Radcliffe, I can’t think of anyone with the capacity or the interest who we’ve-“_

Fitz gasped, cutting her off, as he all of a sudden remembered the tea. A napkin instead of a sleeve – which heaps of people at the store might have touched. A takeaway cup he would hold with his entire hand. Maybe he had been right not to trust Radcliffe. 

_“Are you there now?”_

“No, I’m out. But he’s expecting me back. Do you think there’s any risk?” 

 _“Mm, no. Probably just trying to find more in common with you. He seems pretty psyched that you’re both from Glasgow. Although – it does look like he’s trying to find your address and school and things. A little unnecessary if you ask me.”_

_A little dangerous,_ she was implying. Fitz bit his lip.

“ _Maybe it’s best to confront him on it?”_ Simmons suggested. _“He’s not very aggressive, he’ll probably back down or explain himself right away. Perhaps he just got excited?”_

“Yeah. Maybe…I should go, I’ll call you in a bit.” 

-

Fitz only got a few steps in the door of his office, before he was stopped by the image of Doctor Redcliffe, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“You took your mother’s maiden name. Didn’t you?” 

“My mother’s _name._ Yes.”

Fitz crouched a little, bracing, and began to figure out where and how he could use the arm to defend himself if this went any further awry than he had originally anticipated. 

Radcliffe laughed him off.

“Oh, don’t be like that! I’m just being dramatic. I’m not going to hurt you! I have good news, actually – glorious, even! Look!”

He pulled up two genetic blood work charts on his monitor, and turned the screen so Fitz could see.

“Look here! Isn’t it amazing! You know, I’m still not sold on fate but at times like these…” Radcliffe sighed wistfully. “At times like these…" 

Fitz frowned, and approached the monitor, studying the matchups closely. He couldn’t tell what most of it meant individually, but he knew how to spot a match. This was easily 50%. A sibling match, Jemma called it - or… 

“You’re my Dad.”

“Yes! And it’s not just the DNA too. Where you were born. Your mother’s name – I knew her! Evelyn!”

The world warped and swayed around Fitz all of a sudden, and it felt like no oxygen was getting into his lungs. Of course he was breathing, bodily functions survived panic attacks, he knew that, but it felt like if he didn’t sit down, he’d fall down.

“Sit down!” Radcliffe pushed a chair against his legs. “Of course, it must be so much to take in!”

Gasping, Fitz dropped into the seat and buried his head. When the world felt solid again, he slowly looked up, at where Radcliffe was waiting.

“My boy,” Radcliffe repeated, softer than before. “I can’t believe it, can you? After all this time! Who would have thought? Great news, right?” 

“Great news?” Fitz repeated, baffled. His stomach turned and he could still feel the cold, clammy sweat. He tried to get up, and realised he was not quite confident enough in his ability to stand to walk out just yet. “ _Great news?_ Are you serious?” 

“Of course! We’ve found each other! At long last! We’ve missed so much!” 

“You might have,” Fitz retorted. “Which, by the way, you should have thought of before you left. All I missed is you being a sniveling, backstabbing coward. I’ve met enough of those in my life, thanks.”

“Come on, Leo! That’s all in the past now, isn’t it? No harm done! I want to learn about your life, I want to make up for it!” 

“There’s nothing to make up for that’s worth telling you,” Fitz hissed. “And if you cared about me at all, you’d know I hate my first name.” 

“Alright, I’ll stick to Fitz then! Fitz it is, from here on out. See, I’m already learning!”

“I’ve been correcting you for six weeks!” 

Fitz stood up. He staggered a little, and held himself up on the arm of the chair until the dizziness faded. 

“Consider this my resignation.”

“Leo- Fitz. Come on!”

Radcliffe continued to call after him as he stormed out. He ran down the stairs to vent his excess energy, and strode down the street and to the park he’d gone earlier before he so much as stopped to look around or breathe again. He dropped into the seat at the park and buried his head again, this time not out of panic – at least, not only that – but to stop the dizzying, ringing headache he suddenly had, and calm the rage that was swelling up in his chest in a way he hadn’t felt for so mercifully long. 

He fumbled for his cell, and fortunately, Jemma was quick to pick up. 

“I’m fine,” he greeted wearily, “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

 _“What happened? Are you okay?”_

“I feel sick,” he moaned. “Radcliffe, he –“

 _“He’s your father, isn’t he?”_

His silence was telling.

_“D’you want to talk about it?”_

“No. Later?”

 _“Okay. Do you want me to come get you?”_

“No.” He shook his head. Swallow and breathe, fresh air would fix it. “I’m okay, just a bit…overwhelmed. I quit.”

 _“That’s understandable. Are you sure you’re okay?”_

“Yeah, yeah. Just need a minute. Just needed to hear you. I’m alright. If I need help I’ll call - ”

 _Daisy._ No. 

 _“Call me if you need me.”_ Jemma paused. Of course he’d want to talk to Daisy at a time like this, but alas. Still, she’d offer what she could. “ _Okay, well. Look after yourself. I’ll see you at home?”_

“See you at home.”

Jemma waited until he hung up. Fitz sighed, and looked out over the park. Being the middle of a workday, it wasn’t busy, just a handful of kids with their parents and a few college kids who were either wagging or had the day off. He wondered if any of them had stories as long and complicated as his was. Probably not – but maybe just as heavy. Or maybe, not heavy at all, because someone was protecting them, and one day, it was going to crash down on top of their heads. 

His mother had never told him why his father had left. Perhaps she just hadn’t been able to face being betrayed by somebody she had loved so deeply, and so she couldn’t or wouldn’t understand it. Perhaps she did know, and had just been trying to protect him. Fitz had always figured it was a selfish reason. Shame, perhaps, or money – and Radcliffe had plenty of both to go around now, so there was no reason he couldn’t have fixed it. He’d burnt through his second, third, fourth chances, in the early years he’d been away. Fitz had given up on him eventually and now? Now he’d be surprised if he ever managed to be in a room with the man again, knowing what he knew. Knowing how much his mother had been hurt. Knowing what they’d gone without. Knowing who Radcliffe _was._

Fitz took a deep breath and stood and started walking. It was a decent trip, between here and home, but it was doable and the weather was being fairly cooperative for the time being. Besides, he’d need the time to mull over the consequences of having somebody with 20 years worth of guilt and entitlement drop into his life after 20 years (or nearly that) of wanting nothing to do with said somebody. Walking out on the job was just the beginning. How many people would have to know now? How many chances would Radcliffe get? Would he ever be able to forgive him? Did he even want to? He wasn’t sure. What he _wanted,_ was to un-know this information, but, destiny or not, they hadn’t quite figured time travel out yet. 

His phone rang again, and the moment he looked down at the number, he regretted it. He sighed and put it away again, letting it ring out. This was just the beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz talks to Simmons about the Radcliffe situation.

 

_“See you at home.”_

Simmons hung up and bit her lip. It was not like she’d ever believed they’d escaped danger or anything. They were, after all, still in contact with and very much wrapped up in what was left of Shield, and Simmons herself carried around a potent reminder of their mortality every day, in Lincoln’s old textbooks. He’d brought a few of them to Shield and of course, they’d been left behind, with nothing more than his name inside the cover and a few notes scratched in the margin to identify that he’d ever owned them. Life was fleeting, they reminded her – as if she were not already too aware.

But still, it was hard not to feel somewhat protected by the distance, and by the reassuring domesticity of this new, steadier life. She’d been living in a bubble of quasi-peace, for the most part, since they had all split up, but something about the strain in Fitz’ voice burst that bubble, and brought the real world rushing in. Simmons felt a familiar, nauseatingly strong pull to see his face, and it only took her a second to give in.

“I’m not well,” she explained brusquely as she passed her classmates, who were eating in the courtyard. “I’m going home. I’ll email the professor tonight.”

And with that, she disappeared.

-

Simmons was sitting at the table, paging meaninglessly back and forward through an old psychology textbook, by the time Fitz finally trudged in through the door.

“Oh. Jemma. You’re home.” He blinked, shaking himself out of something, as she got up to greet him and kiss his cheek and run her hand reassuringly over him.

“Of course I’m home. I was worried sick.”

“Sick enough to have a shower and do your hair?” Fitz teased. “I see where your priorities lie.”

Simmons glared – how could he make a joke at a time like this?

“You know I’m not allowed to leave the hospital in scrubs. And you took your sweet time getting here, anyway.”

“Mm, sorry. I was walking. Thinking.”

Fitz sighed, and Simmons let her hand fall as he pulled away. He dropped heavily into the seat beside hers, and let his bag slip to the floor as his minded waded through what to tell her, in what order, and how. As unobtrusively as possible, Simmons rounded the bench into the kitchen and set the kettle to boil, waiting for the explanation she could see brewing in his head.

“It’s not that complicated, really,” Fitz finally began. “I mean, it shouldn’t be, but…”

“Family’s always complicated,” Simmons prompted, trying to be gentle but not wanting to get caught behind this bump in the road.

Fitz sighed again.

“Radcliffe’s my dad. That’s simple, it’s biological. It’s fact. It _is._ But he wants to have this relationship with me, he thinks he can just say sorry and fix it and he can’t.”

“Of course not.”

“Yeah, ‘course not, I told him so, and now he wants a second chance to prove himself or make up or something. Which I – which I…”

“Want to give him?” Simmons guessed.

“No. No, I’m not sure I do.”

Fitz frowned, contemplating the implications of his own words, as Simmons prepared the teapot, set it out, and poured. For a while, they sat in silence, until Simmons figured he must want her advice.

“That’s unlike you,” she observed, “to not want to give somebody a second chance. I’m not saying you have to but…objectively, why not?”

“Is it unlike me, though?” Fitz wondered. “I didn’t want to give Ward a second chance, not ever.”

“Didn’t you, though? You always insisted there must be a reason, and all that – until the Pod, anyway. But after Koenig, after the betrayal, you were the only one to give him a second chance.”

“Denial’s not a second chance.”

Silence fell again, and Fitz pulled the teacup toward himself. He reconsidered his defense of Ward, in the face of Simmons’ and Daisy’s insistence, and May’s surprisingly soft, worried glances (waiting for it to hit him, waiting to catch him when he finally fell). He remembered where the words had come from, deeply rooted his past.

“You know…all that stuff I said,” he explained, “about how there must be a reason…a lot of that was based on what my mum told me. About my dad. She didn’t want me to hate him. She _wanted_ me to give him a second chance.”

“Those are not the same thing,” Simmons pointed out. “Not hating him, and letting him back in. He can live well and be happy far away from you, if that’s what you want.”

“Is it what I want though? Maybe he does deserve a second chance. Maybe he did have his reasons, or maybe he’s changed, I don’t know anything about him or his life.”

“You don’t know those things because he _left_ you for twenty years,” Simmons pointed out. “And from the sounds of things, he hasn’t actually tried to explain himself to you yet. He’s just expecting you to forgive him based on your own heart, not on his merits. Which probably means-“

“He doesn’t have a leg to stand on. I know. I _know,_ believe me. I mean, Jemma, we got kicked out of our _house._ We lived with Nanna for _years._ He didn’t lift a finger when mum was working two jobs, and so was I, or when I went off to school, or graduated, or anything. I thought maybe he was in the army, or special ops, or that he was dead and we didn’t know it, maybe he’d even run off with some other woman, some other family – but now I found out he’s a billionaire, and this whole time he’s been happily p– playing away in his…his sandbox full of robots? No. No, I can’t believe it.”

Simmons reached across the table and took his hand.

“Maybe that’s not what happened,” she offered softly. “Maybe he did run away, but then he had a change of heart and just didn’t know how to come back to you. Clearly, he knows he hurt you. That’s something, right?”

“Doesn’t make it better,” Fitz muttered.

Simmons had nothing to say to that. He was right, of course. Besides, she had no experience on the matter of complicated families. Apart from the odd infamous obscure relative her family was happy and together and relatively well off. At the very least, she’d always had a house.

“I think you should talk to Daisy,” she proposed, and just managed to catch the flicker of hope and inspiration in his eyes before it disappeared.

“How?” he wondered forlornly. “Couls- May and the team have no idea where she is. She’s a ghost.”

“Not to me.”

Fitz’ jaw hung loose as he watched Simmons gather herself and stand. She returned to the kitchen, and he watched as she pulled a large jar of quinoa from the pantry. She buried her hand in it for a moment, and pulled out –

“Is that a burner?”

Simmons nodded.

“Daisy rigged it so it can only call, and be called by, one number.”

“Hers.” Fitz rose from his seat, hope slowly rising above the fear, anxiety, anger and confusion. In awe, he approached the humble burner phone. Such simplicity. Such deception.

“How-“

“She trusted me to give her space. Nothing against you, she just…knows how you are. You’d want her to come back.”

“She should.”

“She has to figure that out on her own.”

“But – the search?” Fitz wondered. “May asked all of us-“

He realised a split second before she said it:

“Not all of us.”

For a brief moment, Simmons’ eyes dropped to the burner. Fitz saw the flicker of hesitation; how hard it was for her to reveal it, like she was betraying Daisy’s trust by revealing it, as well as his for having hidden it for so long.

“Hey,” he assured her, “You’re looking out for her. She asked you to. That means something. And May’s in on it, apparently, which means something too. Plus, you  pulled one over on Coulson, that’s pretty impressive.”

Simmons sighed.

“It _is_ important,” she insisted, for her own benefit.  
  
“You wouldn’t be offering otherwise,” Fitz continued. “It’s not like this sort of thing happens every day.”

“Once in a blue moon,” Simmons agreed.

“In this case, once in seven blue moons,” Fitz corrected.

Most of the humour was lost in the tense atmosphere, so to avoid wasting any more time or effort on trying to make light of the situation, they decided it was time. Simmons pressed the necessary buttons to dial, and then they stood together, huddled over the phone with bated breath, on edge with the anticipation of finally hearing her voice.


End file.
